


The Winner's Guide to International Relations (If You Know What I Mean)

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (which has nothing to do with the zombies), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Porn, Angst, Deliberately Terrible Erotica, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Genderbending, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pining, Slice of Life, Zombie Apocalypse, selfcest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics and lazy almost-series from my tumblrs. Relevant characters, pairings, ratings, and prompts given at the start of the "chapter". Contents may shift if a thought is expanded upon enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Republic of Zombietalia, pt 1

"I was headed to Spain before you shot my car. …why did you shoot my car? Zombies can’t drive." Antonio maneuvered himself around the new hole in his passenger side door. There wasn’t any point in staying in a car that zombies could climb their undead way into, now was there? "And I even slowed down, and rolled down the window, and shouted ‘please get out of the way otherwise I’m going to run you down, you zombie fiend!’, and everything."

"I take precautions."

Yes, but, “That makes no sense.”

The stranger sneered and began to walk away. “Neither does a fucking zombie apocalypse,” he scoffed, “but you don’t hear _me_ bitching day and night about that, do you?”

He didn’t even say goodbye.

"Wait!"

"Fuck off."

There were two choices in front of Antonio. One, he could fuck off and most likely get eaten by zombies. Oh, sure, he had a huge motherfucking battleaxe and shoulders toned from chopping up firewood ( _and more recently zombie torsos_ ), but even he got tired from time to time.

Zombies did not take their required eight week vacation time.

Antonio did not approve.

Choice one was out. Choice two was his choice by default, then, and that involved chasing the retreating stranger down the abandoned highway ( _remaining mindful of potential zombie attacks_ ) and asking him, “can we team up?”

The stranger stopped. When he turned, his gun was so happy to see Antonio that it was pointed straight at his face. Imagine that. “What part of ‘fuck off’ do you not understand?”

“ _Weeelllll_ , if you and I are the only ones left on the planet who aren’t ravenous for brains, then I think it’s _you_ who doesn’t quite understand how that works-“

The stranger sucker punched Antonio in the jaw, which was not fair in the slightest. Well. If that was how he wanted to play it, then Antonio wouldn’t tell the stranger he could see all the way up his pink frilly nightgown.

* * *

"You can call me Spain," Antonio chirped. "Where are _you_ headed?”

"Rome. Which means I’m going in the complete opposite direction of you so you might as well get the fuck out now."

Antonio smiled. “Yeah I think we’re going to be best friends too, Rome.”

"Shut the fuck up and let me drive my goddamn stolen Ferrari."

"Okay!"

"…"

"…"

"…just. Fucking. Ask."

"…"

"…"

"Why are you wearing sunglasses? It’s raining out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they go on a magical zombie-filled journey. Spain tries to tuck Romano’s hair behind his ear while he sleeps, except it’s _that_ hair. They meet up with two dancing fiends named Prussia and India, although Romano keeps trying to shoot Prussia because ‘he must have been bitten already! What kind of moron thinks Prussia still exists!’ And then they meet Batmerica, except Spain accidentally kills him, oops.
> 
> I am severely tempted to flesh this out into a real fic. It doesn’t take much encouragement to get me to do anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four separate occasions they tried to get it on in Zombietalia.

It was getting dark and there were flecks of someone’s intestines in Antonio’s hair. But his face was clear, and so was Rome’s, and both of their hands would be too once Rome stopped being so fussy about getting stains on his dress. That would be soon if Antonio had any say in it, because what was the point of hiding in a women’s lingerie shop with a man who wore dresses if you couldn’t reap the benefits?

"Rome," Antonio started, "How long has it been since you last had sex?" Antonio was a fan of directness. He was also a fan of the lacy panties hanging off the drawer next to him, less of a fan of the two shop girls who had tried to disrobe him before they had tried to eat him, and a huge fan of the look in Rome’s eyes.

"One step ahead of you."

Antonio could not begin to express how big of a fan he was of going commando during the zombie apocalypse, but he thought starting by straddling Rome and pushing his dress the rest of the way up was a good start. And then the manager, dripping blood and missing an arm, burst through the back room door.

 _Motherfucker_.

* * *

"So. We’re alone again."

"Kiss me now or I will _hurt_ you.”

Romano didn’t know why the dumbass with the axe liked beating around the bush so much. They were both here, as far as he could tell no zombies were, and it had been over a month since Romano had last had sex. Clearly this was a moment.

Spain was good at taking directions, though, and Romano sighed as he felt the slow bastard slowly swipe his slow tongue across his slowass lips. Romano shouldered his Beretta, grabbed Spain by the ass and prepared to get at least some fantastic grinding in before any more undead abominations tried to get a free show.

"Hey! Hey India! I THINK I FOUND SOME LIVE ONES! THEY’RE OVER HERE AND— WOAH, WOAH _HOLY SHIT_ , HOLY SHIT INDIA **I FOUND PORN!** ”

* * *

Spain rocked forward and Romano couldn’t breathe. But it was good; good, and Spain, and something far too long coming. Romano’s fingers curled into Spain’s collar, too tight, maybe he couldn’t feel them anymore, or maybe he could only feel the mouth on his cock, more important and right _there_ , and Spain was terrifyingly good at this, and Romano didn’t have any words.

He only had paintings, in his mind, of the _pop_ of Spain’s mouth every time he leaned back, of the smell of gunpowder, of the feel of up and down and up again, and even those dissolved into colors behind Romano’s eyes after no time at all.

"R-"

"Rome."

"-ink India found a town without zomb-"

"-ou awake?"

 _Motherfucker_.

* * *

"Sp-spain!"

"Wait. I want you to say my real name. Because I love my country, but otherwise you sound like a tourism ad, and I’d rather you sounded like a me-ad."

"How, hhng, how are you-ah! Words, **_oh_**. _H-how_?”

"It’s Antonio."

"Zombie!"

"No, An— oh not _again_.”

* * *

Antonio shoved Romano against the wall with more force than he’d originally intended. “Romano? Your name is Romano?”

"…And?"

That it was disappointing to trade something so precious and secret as a name, only to find out that ‘Rome”s was practically the same as what Antonio had already been calling him for weeks, did not appear to cross Romano’s mind. And Italian men were supposed to be _romantic_. Antonio sighed, before dragging Romano further into the building and jamming a stray M12 into the handles of the doors behind them.

It was incredibly convenient how major public buildings in Italy all had submachine guns lying around, especially with the way Romano went through bullets. Antonio had asked, in Florence, just _why_ there were so many submachine guns lying around. He didn’t think ‘how many Carabinieri does it take to die from a zombie attack?’ was a helpful answer but he didn’t want to press the issue. Especially not when Romano had just found three new, fully-loaded, Berettas.

"And?"

"And what?"

Antonio continued walking and saw what he had been hoping for at the back of the room: a bank vault. There was no. _fucking_. way. the zombies could interrupt them if they locked themselves in a bank vault. Skipping, he squeezed Romano’s hand in his ( _while using the other to unzip his fly_ ).

He was lucky that he noticed the small red dot on the floor next to his left foot, because a warning echoed out over the marble hall only _after_ the sniper-precision shot. “ **Buckle your goddamn pants and get the hell out of my bank!** ”

_Motherfucker._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn meme. "Anonymous asked: Nyotalia!Spamano"

"You don’t have to worry about them," Spain laughs, and the sound flows low and muffled up from wherever she’s busied herself now, "they’re the perfect size for my hands; any bigger and I would have to get new hands to hold them with!"

"That doesn’t make any sense," Romana grumbles, but neither does putting on a blindfold and taking off all her clothes when Spain is neither sightless nor naked, so perhaps Romana is not the best scholar on sense either. "And shut up, who said I worry about them."

But she does, so much so that she knows that Spain is talking about her breasts even though Spain has been nipping a path up Romana’s left thigh for what feels like a thousand years. Spain could very well have been talking about something completely different: tomatoes, or exports, or shoes. She does that, even when the air is hot and she and Romana are side-to-side and helpless in each other.

This time wasn’t any of that, though, because this time Spain’s voice was husky, _teasing_ , Romana can pick out those nuances even better than her paranoia already lets her when she cannot be distracted by sight, Spain should shut the fuck up. Spain should really _shut the fuck up_.

( _Not everyone can have— can have **those** , and Romana feels her toes twitch thinking about them. It’s against her will_.)

Unpredictably, Spain shuts the fuck up.

Certainly babbling on about embarrassing things is difficult when two hands, smooth and cared for and sure, have grabbed your hair and pulled up and tight and up. Certainly when your mouth is a half-open grin and your tongue is darting out to taste your lover’s familiar warmth, it isn’t easy to chatter her into blushes and shudders and shakes.

But usually that doesn’t stop Spain.

And Romana would ask, she normally would, but Spain’s tongue is gliding back and forth, and in, and in this moment words are the furthest thing from her mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn meme. "salaryman-san asked: Swiss/Bel smut. Sweet and fluffy by the fire place. Just like hot chocolate :P"

The chocolate is unexpected, but a nice touch, she thinks. Switzerland is always surprising her with these little sorts of things, romantic things, and she feels a little bit of guilt at the fact that it still surprises her. But that melts away quickly. The brushstrokes are soft, and smooth, and the feeling and the warmth make her sigh in delight.

He starts at her shoulder. It tickles a little. She laughs, and he scowls, and they both know he’s faking it, even when he tells her to quit moving. In response, she tackles him down, closer to the fire, and streaks his stomach dark with chocolate.

"We match now."

"How brilliant of you."

"Yes," she sighs again and points to the open canister still warming by the fire. There is an 80 proudly embossed onto its side. "Almost pure, but not quite."

"No," his eyes are sharp, "not quite."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn meme. "Anonymous asked: PruHun~?"

Prussia’s diaries tell him that he’s never been the one on top but he _knows_ that isn’t true. It can’t be true. There is no possible universe where that is true, because he is so fucking potent that all the ladies fall down and spread their legs whenever they see him. All the ladies. That potent.

From above him, perched calm and fully in control, Hungary rises and falls and rises again, only to pause. And smile. And draw the tip of her slender finger down his manly chest. “Say it.”

"N-n-ngh-n-"

"Say," she lifts even further off his cock and fucking hell, the woman’s such a, "it."

She isn’t even touching him when he comes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn meme. "flanoir asked: spain and romano pls"

Cocksucking is an artform. Romano knows this. Romano has known this for years, centuries, even before it was the recreational Thing To Do and close male friendships were the thing of the day. Even before then. By now, Romano knows Spain knows this too, and he knows that Spain only knows because Romano has taught him.

That’s too much knowing. Too much for right now. But, then again, Romano was always the clever one.

"To," Spain sits back, question in his eyes, saliva on his lips, "to the left now?"

"Yeah," Romano breathes. "Yeah. To the left."

Spain’s a quick study, that’s for sure, but Romano will never teach him everything because there are some tricks best left for the master to keep from the student. Maybe, and that’s such a fucking big maybe, when Spain’s ready. Maybe then.

Spain dips his head forward again and slides his tongue down, and to the left, before sweeping it back again, up and to the right. He’s got such a fetish for circles and loops; there has to be something there, but it isn’t Romano’s job to figure out what so he doesn’t. Instead he runs one hand over his face and through his own hair. He runs the other through Spain’s in a motion that would be encouraging if anyone else had used it.

Condescension is another part of the art.

Romano picks up his pen, dots another ‘i’ and crosses another ‘t’. Yes, it’s all an art.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "zieberich asked: I don't know if smutparagraoh!night is still ongoing, but if so: An extract from The Itallian Stallions, uh, works please? Preferably Romano topping; writing style being that of a trashy romance novel optional"

Antonio bit his lip and made sure the door to his room was securely locked. It had been a long day, a long month really, and he had three hours until Gilbert came tramping back in from the math study center. Antonio intended to use every last second of those three hours to unwind.

He stepped over to his bookcase and drew a finger along the spines of the DVD cases sitting on the second shelf. They weren’t action flicks, because then Gilbert would beg to watch them with Antonio, and they weren’t romantic comedies, because then Gilbert would steal them in the middle of the night and watch them while Antonio was in class. The cases were for old documentaries, mostly Spanish, and for back copies of news programs Antonio’s mother had transferred over from tapes she’d made when he had been a child.

No one ever commented on Antonio’s DVDs, much less looked through them, which was perfect, in his opinion. Perhaps Gilbert was fine with all and sundry knowing exactly how he liked to get off ( _big-breasted women and the prim princesses who were undressed by them_ ) but Antonio preferred to be alone.

Just him and his DVDs.

Antonio’s finger stopped on battered grey plastic: the only unmarked case in his collection. Inside was his favorite movie. The title was printed, on the disc itself, to look as though it had been scribbled on with a black marker. Cheap at first glance, then clever, then cheap again. The same could be said of most aspects of the Italian Stallion’s films, and that was exactly how Antonio liked it.

He popped the DVD into his computer, settled himself on his bed, and hit play.

_~~~~~penispenispenispenis~~~~~_

Scarlet, emerald, ivory.

And a box of pizza.

Giovanni Velluti, because his nametag read Giovanni Velluti so that’s who he had to be, wore a striped shirt and a disaffected expression. His hazel eyes were sharp, though, in stark contrast to his weary face. Sable gloves covered his hands, which clutched a simple, slim box of pizza close to his side. The top of the box had a colorful drawing of a winking tomato on it, with the description _Extra Meaty,_ written in pen, floating above it.

Velluti could have been anyone, any pizza boy lounging by a cherry red Vespa for no good reason.

( _Antonio rubbed at the flesh just below his navel, and knew better_ )

“Stupid bastard prank caller,” Velluti grumbled, before gracefully pulling away from the Vespa and striding towards a nondescript row of apartments, “This will be the last time.” His brow, tanned and smooth, was set. His shoes made purposeful clacks against the concrete sidewalk below him as he walked, revealing that he was the sort of man who did exactly what he set out to do. Velluti was the sort of man who got things done.

( _Antonio’s hand teased the elastic edge of his waistband. He needed to take it easy or he wouldn’t even last to his favorite part_ )

A small round buzzer sat next to the door, in plain view, but Velluti ignored it in favor of smashing his hand against the door itself, one, two, six times. The force of each blow disturbed the cold metal numbers, 221, that designated the apartment. At the sixth stroke, the middle 2 shuddered, wriggled precariously, and fell with a clatter. Velluti sneered at it, but his attention was soon captured by the sound of the doorknob turning.

Velluti himself was no Adonis burgeoning with oiled muscles and a steely gaze, but he was of a decent height and his shirt, striped and clinging, did more than hint at definition beneath his clothes. What showed of his skin almost gave a golden glisten in the light.

( _Antonio hit pause. A few minutes later, play_ )

On the other hand, the man at the door was slight and slender. He seemed almost too beautiful to be a man, if that were possible. With a level gaze he opened his lush mouth in order to say—

( _Antonio fast forwarded through his dialogue. The actor’s dead eyes were unnerving and Antonio had memorized his lines anyway_ )

“You ordered it,” Velluti responded and shoved his way further into the apartment, “So now you’re going to get it.”

They didn’t make it past the IKEA sofa in the front room. Velluti had the Customer’s shirt off with the practiced ease of a master craftsman and in no time they were both naked sans Velluti’s snug grey jeans.

( _Antonio allowed his hand to sneak into his boxers_ )

“You think you can fuck around with me,” Velluti snarled, hands twisting in the Customer’s golden locks, “well—”

( _Antonio hit the mute button, and watched the Stallion’s lips move, and moved his hand in kind. Every ‘w’ was a teasing kiss, every ‘l’ a lick; every vowel was a glorious torture._ )

Velluti continued to shout, as he manhandled the Customer onto the floor. The Customer shot back—by burying his face in Velluti’s constrained, burgeoning erection.

And biting.

Velluti’s face contorted into a mask of heightened arousal and fury.

( _And his expressive, silent tirade sent Antonio over the edge._

_Antonio hit pause._

_A few minutes later, because Antonio was young yet, play._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moral of the story is that Spain thinks in Romance Novel and has questionable tastes. The other moral of the story is that when other people draw things I get _inspired_. The other other moral of the story is that romance novels are difficult to write when you aren’t used to them, and I don’t know how, dammit. Google Giovanni Velluti, because I didn’t make the name up. Grandpa Rome just has a sense of humor like that ;) If you’re wondering who the other dude in the video is… Norway.
> 
> Also I decided that you can never have enough of the word ‘burgeoning’ in this kind of fic.
> 
> What else happens here: they fuck some more and offstage Berwald cries a little for all the furniture that he had to assemble the night before that they’re wrecking now. Poor Berwald. Poor coffee table. :( I DON’T EVEN KNOW


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soup for the Soul verse. PG. "cutthroatpixie asked: SUPERMAN TELL ME A BEDTIME STORY"

"What are you two doing?"

Antonio looked up from the plate in his hand. Romano did not, because only Bosses were allowed to do the drying. Only Bosses were allowed to put the dishes into the sink. Only Bosses were allowed near the china. And Bosses, and only Bosses, were allowed anywhere near the knives.

Henchmen, even if they were Five Whole Years Old like Romano, were only allowed to make sure the bowls got really, really clean by turning the faucet on and off to rinse them. They could also scrub everything that wasn’t a knife with one of Boss’s big squishy yellow sponges, but Romano had the inkling that sometimes Boss re-squished the sponges and re-washed the plates after Romano had had a go at them.

It was like Boss didn’t even trust him.

"Washing the dishes!"

"No!"

Lovina grabbed the blanket closer around her shoulders and quietly bitched out the weather. Only in her mind, of course. After the fuck debacle, like hell was she letting Romano stain his virtuous vocabulary by hearing words she was completely entitled to say but which if she ever heard him repeat she’d make him regret. “Why the fuck are you washing the dishes when the electricity is out and it’s ten fucking degrees below inside?”

Oops.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anonymous asked: Spain and Romano and stinky garlic breath?"

Once upon a time, Romano made a pizza that was very very very _very_ garlicky. It was so covered in garlic that Romano could barely see any of the cheese! Romano ate the very very very _very_ garlicky pizza, and sighed in happiness because it was damn good. His breath reached a nearby potted plant.

The plant died.

Suddenly, the clock struck three!

"Oh fuck," Romano thought, "I have a date with that dumbass, Spain."

That dumbass, Spain, was Romano’s boyfriend. They were very very very _very_ sweet on each other, despite all of Romano’s protests to the contrary. In fact, Spain was so sweet on Romano that he had arrived ten minutes ~~late~~ early to their date! He had taken the extra time to hide behind some trees so he could watch Romano cutely arrive. He was so whipped.

When Romano arrived, though, Spain knew something was wrong. For one, all the plants around Romano were wilting! And all the happy little bluebirds that followed Spain around all day were dropping out of the sky like flies!

"Romano, I think it’s the end of the world," Spain shouted, breaking his cover.

"AHHHHHHHH," Romano shrieked, startled by the sudden noise. The shrill noise was accompanied by a gust of very very very _very_ garlicky breath. “Don’t do that!”

Spain turned red.

He turned yellow.

His arms began to tremble.

And his eyes began to water.

"R-Romano," he spluttered.

"What?"

"I…will always love you, even from beyond!" And then he died.

Not really. He only fainted, but he made it look like he was dying because he was a dramatic bastard.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anonymous asked: chibitalia/holy rome ?"

The girl the Holy Roman Empire likes to call Italy might be a servant, but he knows that one day he’ll be able to give her a better life. He will have the world, and she will be his queen. For now, though, he has a loose collection of idiots under his control ( _most of them taller than him, damn them_ ) and Italy cleans his hats.

He is not aware that Italy is the one who cleans his hats.

To the Holy Roman Empire, hats are large, weighty affairs that keep the rain off his head. He puts one on in the morning, and takes it off at night. While he sleeps, sometimes it is traded for another hat entirely, the felt an obviously different shade or the make an obviously different design. And, other times, there are no differences other than a noticeable lack of mud on the brim.

The Holy Roman Empire keeps a sketch of Italy in his hat. He takes his hat with him everywhere, so why not?

Italy Veneziano cleans the Holy Roman Empire’s hats, at night, but it isn’t until the tenth year of doing so that he finds the first sketch. It isn’t until five years later that he realizes it’s supposed to be a person, and not until he shows it to Hungary does he find out who that person is supposed to be.

In the Holy Roman Empire’s eyes, Italy Veneziano is a colorful blob with an arcing smile and maybe more curves than any small child, boy or girl, should have. Still.

_Still._

The Holy Roman Empire has a sketch of Italy Veneziano trapped away in his hat, day after day, and Italy Veneziano thinks that maybe it’s the most wonderful portrait of him that will ever be drawn.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word meme. "cutthroatpixie asked: Pulchritudinous"

Antonio’s just looking up from the urinal when he sees it scribbled along the wall, right in front of his eyes.

_I’d tap that pulchritudinous ass 623-433-529_

And woah. _Woah_. If Antonio didn’t know any better, and he usually doesn’t… He pulls out his phone, and stares at it. It stares back. They watch each other, for a while, before Antonio gives in and makes a call. “Gil?”

"What?"

"…can you call this number?" Antonio reads it off the bathroom wall, leaning his nose in a little to make sure he gets all the numerals correct. As soon as he’s done speaking he hangs up. He knows Gil will call the number, if only out of curiosity.

A few seconds later, Antonio’s phone rings.

Huh.

How did his mobile number end up there?

…and what does ‘pulchritudinous’ mean? _  
_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "goingforpoetic asked: Germany/Italy"

Germany’s heart soars when it has no business to. Take, for example, when Veneziano returns a phone call: certainly that’s a miracle, yes, because more often than not Veneziano ignores phone calls completely. But the sound of Veneziano’s voice in Germany’s voicemail is no more reason for Germany’s palms to sweat than any other. This is run-of-the-mill. This is business.

So, then, when Germany’s palms _do_ sweat, and his heart _does_ race, he hides them in shame. Or, more often, in paperwork. Paperwork is worlds from shame, but it is very good at taking up Germany’s time and thoughts, and so that is where he turns when Veneziano.

When Veneziano.

When Veneziano does the things that he does.

And especially when he does them without thinking about the impact they have on Germany’s traitorous soaring heart.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [There was a list](http://kixboxer.tumblr.com/post/17252036529/utterly-random-stuff-words-to-avoid-when-writing) of words to avoid when writing porn. I took it as a challenge. Romano/Spain.

Romano’s grumpy sphincter closed tight against Spain’s cheerful, dripping salami monster.

“¡Vale!” Spain groaned, “¡Roma your vaginal cave isn’t supposed to tenderize my hamhock in that fashion! ¡Eso no es bueno! ¡No besos for you!”

“If your fucking penis weren’t such a meat torpedo then I wouldn’t have to,” Romano cried. Glistening tears flowed down his face in a waterfall of emotion. Or, rather, a bit more like an estuary of emotion because they were salty. He blushed. “My anus isn’t a bearded clam anyway. It is my Treasured Special Place.”

Spain melted in joy, and in semen, inside Romano’s pasta bowl of love. “Your fanny belongs to me Romano, always.”

“And your scrotum to me,” Romano replied breathily, even though he actually said “shut up about my ass” because what he really meant was the first thing, Spain knew it in his penis of hearts.

They came together.

From the foot of the bed, Spain’s pussy licked his paw and stared. And stared.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "cutthroatpixie asked: ROMANO/FEMROMANO"

What they have is the purest form of narcissism, that’s true, but they don’t care so fuck if anyone else does. Romano looks at Romana’s face and sees his own, but feminine and beautiful. He sees all of his own tight mannerisms with a woman’s grace, and he thinks that the universe is an amazing thing; it gives him the person who understands him most, with the face he loves best, and a decent rack to go along with it.

Romana thinks the universe is insane, but won’t question how it has given her the one person she can always trust.

( _Because she can crush him with his own weaknesses, and he with hers, and they have their perfect, twin understanding_ ).


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anonymous asked: Romano/fem!Spain and tittyfucking? Because it seems it's called "Spanish job" 8)"

It has to burn or something. It has to be uncomfortable, and strange to balance, and maybe a little awkward because some nights Romano gets really into it and maybe kind of gets a bit of _it_ into her eyes. It has to be weird.

Romano could never even imagine letting some fatass oaf rock around on his chest.

Good for Spain, then, that Romano is Romano, that is, the complete opposite of a fatass oaf. But still. Romano knows there are places inside the human body where penises are supposed to go. He lived through the Renaissance. He hasn’t made trying out different… _orifices_ his life’s work or anything, not like Rome did, but it’s not like Romano’s a _virgin._ Or _inexperienced_. Or **_embarrassed._**

Romano just doesn’t know why Spain keeps pulling him down on top of her, neglecting everything else just so he can— so—

The sound she makes could almost be called a snicker, if Spain were the type to snicker. “Roma, your face!”

Bitch.

“W-what about it?”

It’s just a face. It’s just a very red, slightly contorted face, complete with squinting eyes and twisting grimace. It’s just that Romano can do the handsome and manly sex face thing, sure he can ( _he lived through the Renaissance!_ ), but it’s harder when Spain’s got her rack surrounding his dick and that fucking pleased smile on her face. It’s like she’s making fun of him. She _is_ making fun of him.

“It’s very cute,” she sighs, drawing out her vowels to accompany the drift of her hands from their place over his ( _“I can do this stop it let go I’m fine” “Roma, do you need help?” “I-I-I will be **fine** ” “Romano, are you _nervous _?”_ ) to play with her—

Oh God.

Romano’s cock twitches because it’s a pervert like that. His mouth whimpers because it’s a traitor like that. And Spain continues to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I imagined fresh-off-his-independence Romano finally getting into Spain’s pants and just. Freaking out about it. Like, he’d try to be some sort of Latin lover, but then she’d out-Latin-Lover him and he’d just be off trembling somewhere, mesmerized because boobs. His body is ready but his poor mind is not.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frostwhisker on tumblr wanted "an extremely well-written fluffy Spamano fic to read". I can’t promise ‘extremely well-written’, but I can promise ‘at least okay-written’.

Spain decided, one afternoon, in the middle of a step, in the middle of the road, that he was in love. “Ah,” he said, before another car came racing by and he had to hop and skip out of the way. He’d lost his legs once before and he felt no need to repeat the experience. He’d also been in love before, in so much love that he didn’t know what to do with himself. Spain had sat in piles of his cold, consuming, metallic love before, and to be honest he felt no need to repeat _that_ experience either.

Instead, he called Romano.

He got put to voicemail.

Romano would probably hit him for attempting to romance “If it’s about work call Veneziano. If this is you, Spain, and you’ve forgotten the keys to your own house again then just try the fucking door because you never lock it anyway. You moron. Ciao.” Of course, Spain never remembered details like that.

"Romano! This is Spain! Can you hear me? Am I talking loud enough? …Romanoooo! You aren’t answering your phoooonnnee! Romanooooo! Romano when you get this call me back because I think I’m in love with yoooouuuu!"

Satisfied, Spain hung up.

It was only then, after his wallpaper ( _a long stretch of **untouched** Sicilian coastline_) popped back up onscreen, that Spain realized he hadn’t said the most important thing. He rang Romano again. This time he reached “SPAIN YOU FUCKING IDIOT HOW DARE YOU TELL ME THAT TO MY FUCKING VOICEMAIL FUCK YOU FUCK YOUR FACE FUCK YOUR FUCKING MOUNTAIN RANGES FUCK IF I EVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN AND FU—.”

Huh.

"Romano! Romano was last time loud enough? …is that why you’re upset? ……ROMANO! I SAID I LOVE YOU BUT THAT’S BAD! IT’S REALLY BAD! I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU!"

Spain hung up again. This time, while he walked along the road, traffic thinning, Spain gave Romano five full minutes to respond. If Spain got back to his house before he got Romano to understand that Romano maybe probably shouldn’t stay there right now, then Spain didn’t know what he would do.

He was in love.

And Spain knew what love did to him.

This time, “…you have five seconds to explain yourself,” answered.

Funny, Spain thought it had to ring more than that to work. Wasn’t ringing part of it? A lot of rings, too, because otherwise that meant the other person had answered. Spain had a manual about these things next to his computer in his office in Madrid. He used the manual as a paperweight sometimes, and sometimes to hide forms he didn’t want to sign, but most of the time to prop up the edge of the desk his printer sat on because one of the legs wasn’t long enough.

He shook his phone out a little before returning it to his ear. “ **ROMANO**!”

“ **Stop shouting, you asshole, you’re loud enough!** ”

Oh. “Oh.”

"…well?"

"…ah…"

"…"

"…Romano?"

"…"

"Romano, are you still there?"

"…"

"Romano, I meant it."

Finally, he responded, “Which part?”

"Both!" Spain chirped. "I was thinking, just now, about how I need to get milk sometime in the next few days, and I don’t want to get it now because if I do I won’t have time to drink it, but I need it eventually, and also I love you."

"…"

“ **…ROMANO CAN YOU HEAR ME?!** ”

"Aa— **my ear**! Fuck you, _yes_ , yes I heard you. But. I.” On the other end of the line, Romano coughed. “B- what about the other part?”

"The milk?"

“ _The other part._ ”

Spain balanced his phone on one shoulder as he nudged his back door open with the other. “How I don’t want to hurt you because everybody knows that everybody hurts the ones they love, because they want to possess the ones they love and never let them out of their sight and also I want to tie you up? If you don’t mind?” Was that the part that Romano was talking about? Spain wasn’t sure. Sometimes conversations with Romano got too abstract for Spain’s tastes, although he guessed they were often secretly about all the repressed fear and insecurities Romano had. Or turtles. One of those two. “You should mind, though, Romano, because I also want to squeeze your ass in public so that everybody knows you’re mine and not somebody else’s, or single, although I guess that would make you ‘yours’, and that’s bad, the part where I want to put one of my flags on you and change your passport, that’s really bad, I read in Telva that you should drop a man like that and I don’t want you to drop me.”

Because that would hurt.

It would hurt Spain’s heart.

And Telva didn’t have very good advice about broken hearts.

"…the fuck?"

Spain plopped himself down in one of his kitchen chairs with a sigh, and nodded to Romano, who sat transfixed on the other end of the table. His jaw was halted, gaping, mid-word, and his head looked as though it were spinning on the inside. Spain could relate.

"We can’t! That’s the point! Because every time you tried to leave I’d just try and make you stay by doing something off of one of the Top Ten Hottest Ways To Get Your Man’s Attention lists and then we’d never get any work done and the EU would fall and your brother would get mad at me and also you would hate me and leave and Telva doesn’t have a replacement for you!"

"…the fuck?"

Spain sighed, before grabbing one of Romano’s hands from across the table. He ran his thumb over Romano’s knuckles before he realized that he probably shouldn’t. “I love you.”

Romano blinked, dazed. “…I drank the last of your milk,” he said, “And you are such an asshole.”

Spain nodded.

"And a bastard."

Spain kept nodding.

"And I hate you."

Spain sniffled.

"Except I don’t."

Really?

"Even though I wish I did. A lot. Pretty much every day."

…Really?!

"So," Romano turned off his phone and threw it behind him. It struck a potted plant but Spain had never liked plants anyway. Or pots. Or phones. Or things that weren’t Romano turning red across from him. "So. If you try to change my passport I’ll beat the ever-loving shit out of you."

"R—"

"Because it took me _decades_ to get a good picture in one of those, yeah? You do anything to that picture and I’ll _kill_ y—”

Spain’s greatest fear in relationships had a lot to do with control, and his inability to let things be not entirely his. Also he was afraid of an evil twin popping out of somewhere and taking his place just when he was about to get married to the love of his life.

( _With humans telenovela plots were ridiculous; with nations they were a reasonable concern._ )

But as Romano cut off his own sentence by jumping over Spain’s kitchen table in a fit of romantic frustration, Spain figured he maybe didn’t have so much to worry about after all.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anonymous asked: GerIta (not necessarily with Germany topping, though!)"

Germany breathes out through his nose and steels himself for the task ahead, which earns him a giggle and a pair of flexible hands on his lower back. Rough fingerpads paint slow curlicues on his back, and Germany gulps. They’ve never done this before.

They’ve done part of this before, parts, and Veneziano assures Germany that Germany has nothing to worry about anyway, ve. That Veneziano’s success rate here is maybe 60% or more, which is really high, just ask anyone. Germany wonders who ‘everyone’ encompasses.

How many people, in his life, has Veneziano taken to bed? How many people has he disrobed and licked and teased and played with and disobeyed? How many people has he crooned poetry to at night?

And what happened to that other 40%?

"Germany," Veneziano says, moving his hands away, "stop. Come here."

Which one Veneziano means isn’t really clear, although Germany would guess both. He, Germany, hadn’t been moving to start with, except in his mind, and Veneziano is right there, so the deduction doesn’t help him anyway. He does turn over, though.

"We can do it like this too," Veneziano says, and now there’s a leg between Germany’s thighs. The leg is thin and appears even moreso where it is, between the products of Germany’s strict training regimens; there aren’t any orders to run in the mornings anymore, but staying fit is still popular so Germany still does it. "Stop thinking."

Pink elephants.

Veneziano moves his leg up, and down, teases the underside of Germany’s cock with the pressure and soon not thinking becomes quite easy indeed, and even sooner not moving becomes just as hard.

Germany’s the one turning and teasing and grinding now and it would be incredibly embarrassing if— well, yes, fine, it’s still incredibly embarrassing that Germany’s getting off of Veneziano’s leg, like a dog, and Veneziano’s just lying there, smiling, taking it, directing it, humming in Germany’s ear. But it’s still good.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "hockpock asked: Romano x Romano. awkward."

Romano doesn’t know why he’s fucking himself. Maybe it’s because, earlier, he told himself to, “go fuck yourself,” and his other self is just doing his duty like men tend to do when the duty is fucking. Maybe it’s because— Romano has no fucking idea, okay, no. Fucking. Idea.

But damn he’s fine.

"Of course I am, why would you even say that."

But _damn_ , his other self is a jackass, because Romano didn’t **say** that, thanks, he only thought it. Inside his own head. Quietly. Fucking head-voyeur.

And now Romano’s thinking about head. Penis. Cocks. Dick. Cocks cocks cocks, his _own_ cock is in his _own_ mouth, kind of, oh God, penis. **Penis**. His _own_ mouth is surrounding his _own_ cock and this would be better if it weren’t essentially the end of the universe jerking itself off. Romano’s heard it said that if there were two of him the universe would just give up and go somewhere else.

( _Veneziano is a jackass too._ )

And now at the time of trial it has decided instead that there should be cocks and fucking and cocksucking and then Romano jizzes in his own mouth.

Twice.

And chokes on it.

Twice.

"Thanks, asshole." "Thanks, asshole."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anonymous asked: Femano/Spain? I have seen you write Romano/Spain, Romano/femspain and femano/femspain porn, but never that one."

She used to hate it when they had sex, and she would tell him immediately afterward, when she still wasn’t thinking clearly, that she was weak. And stupid. And that all her people ever saw when she went to him, ostensibly for something diplomatic, was another slut going to get herself fucked.

He used to… not hate. _Dislike_. He used to dislike it when they had sex because all she thought about before, during, and after was what all those other men would be thinking; how those other women would be judging. It was selfish, Spain knew that even as she rolled away from his arms and towards the edge of the bed, but he wanted her to only think of him.

He wondered how much the world, and she, would have to change for that to happen.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "flanoir asked: Turkey/Spain? I WOULD ENJOY YOUR TAKE ON THIS."

They’re both pretty old, yeah? And sometimes old men like to lie out in the sun and take their time. Smoke twists through the air and two half-empty bottles warm with it. Or— one mostly-empty bottle and one barely-touched one. Turkey doesn’t know if Spain doesn’t like Efes, or if he just doesn’t take beer unless it would be rude not to. Spain has never said, and Turkey has never felt it to be something important enough to ask about. If he really wanted something else, Spain would get it for himself.

That’s the kind of person Spain is.

That’s also the kind of person Turkey is, so it works out.

It’s why they’re fucking on a rooftop, now, for one, instead of finishing their drinks. Or— instead of Turkey finishing both of their drinks and Spain chattering about some such.

Although they’re more lounging, now, caught between one round and the next, and… the chattering is back. Turkey tries to muffle it with an arm. For his trouble he is bitten, then licked, then bitten again. For Spain’s trouble, he is flipped onto his back.

They begin again.


End file.
